Bad Decisions
by HiM'e'iTSu
Summary: Trapped in a relationship that seemed so wonderful at the beginning – a relationship with a very dangerous man – Mycroft has to deal with a brother who suddenly takes an interest in his life and a sudden attraction to a DI that Sherlock works with. Starts as Mycroft/Moriarty but is eventually Mystrade.


**A/N: **The idea for this story came to me when I was watching Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. So, I've been working on it for a very long time, loving, hating and then loving this story again. Anyway, what I liked in that movie was that James Moriarty was known to the world as a respected professor, and only some people knew he was a criminal mastermind. That's what I played with in this story.

Also, despite the fact that Mycroft is in a relationship with another man for the majority of the story, the story actually is Mystrade.

As I said, it was hard to write. I started it right after I saw Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows in cinema – yeah, that was a long time ago. It turned out longer that I expected and I think I lost my inspiration halfway. I finished it but left the editing for some other time. Other time came much later and while editing I rewrote half of the story. And then I had to edit it again. So right now, I hate and love this story in equal proportions.

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock BBC belongs to its respectful owners.

* * *

_Trapped in a relationship that seemed so wonderful at the beginning – a relationship with a very dangerous man – Mycroft has to deal with a brother who suddenly takes an interest in his life and a sudden attraction to a DI Sherlock works with. Starts as Mycroft/Moriarty but is eventually Mystrade._

* * *

_**Bad Decisions**_

"Mycroft, your lover is a terrible person."

"I don't remember ever asking your opinion on the matter."

"I mean it."

At that Mycroft lifted his eyes from the columns of numbers on the sheet of paper in his hand and finally looked at his brother. Sherlock's posture was relaxed as he lounged in a plush chair, the one Mycroft had especially ordered for his office – his favorite chair, with his legs crossed at the ankles and lying on the coffee table; a mahogany coffee table with patterns of ivory on the polished top that cost a small fortune. His appearance didn't match the seriousness of his tone, calm but with an edge of urgency that Mycroft immediately picked up on and attempted to analyze. Even the use of a collocation 'a terrible person' stood out, unusual for his brother's speech.

"My people did some background research. There is nothing wrong." Mycroft commented after a pause and returned to the papers on his desk. He created an illusion of being actively busy, his gaze running over the lines without actually taking them in, while attentively listening to what Sherlock had to say next.

"That only shows how good _his_ people are. I could have mentioned the incompetence of some of _your_ men, but that's not the point right now." Sherlock paused to make sure Mycroft was listening to him. "_Now_ I want you to understand how dangerous that man is. He is my main suspect in most major crimes of the last year. I also think he's responsible for the explosions in London."

"An organization, a name of which I am not going to tell you, had already taken the responsibility." Mycroft replied coolly, eyes falling back to the document, disregarding the younger man. Sherlock let out an exasperated huff. He was getting annoyed, on his way to getting angry. Good.

"I also have information that proves his involvement with criminal organizations."

Mycroft's head snapped up – a move too quick, too obvious. He sighed and looked back down, not trying to look busy any more. Slumped in his chair, he didn't lift his eyes from the tabletop.

"I recommend you break this relationship."

He knew Sherlock was looking straight at him, searching for eye contact. Mycroft didn't want to grant him that. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands atop his knees.

"Mycroft." Sherlock called out softly, but with a warning hidden in his voice.

"Sherlock," the older brother replied in tone. Finally he lifted his eyes. "I'm touched with your concern, but I believe that my personal life in none of your business."

It was cold and unfair to Sherlock who came to him because he was sincerely worried; an occurrence so not in his character. Mycroft just brushing him off like that would hurt him, not that any of the Holmes brothers would allow anyone to see it. But Mycroft didn't want him to get involved in this on top of all the cases Sherlock was investigating. Because this, _this relationship_, was not his business. Not his problem.

"As you wish." Sherlock huffed and stormed out of the office.

When the door slammed closed, leaving him in the solitude and the quiet of the office, Mycroft allowed himself a moment of weakness and lowered his head onto his hands. He was perfectly aware that James wasn't as nice as he appeared to be. His record was absolutely clean, not even a minor crime of youth, not even a quarrel with another 'rich kid'. Nothing. Always polite, loved by all the privileged society, intelligent, got the best education, became a professor much earlier than was considered ordinary. Spotless on paper and perfect in person.

James Moriarty seemed a perfect gentleman, a helpful man and a caring lover. But Mycroft was terrified of what he might find if he searched deeper. He was sure Sherlock's research provided more information, but he did not want to see it. Having solid proof would make it real.

They met on one of many social gatherings, taking a liking to each other from the first moment. For Mycroft it was nice to finally find someone whose intelligence matched his, but talking to James didn't require always being on his toes as it was with Sherlock, at least on the first stage of their relationship. It was new and amazing and drew them to each other; the fact that James also was interested in something more than friendship encouraged them to take a new step. With him Mycroft felt relaxed and free to be himself; he mistook it for falling in love. Only months later, when their relationship, still going smooth and stable, started reaching a phase when it was getting serious, he realized his mistake. A man of James's intelligence and ambitions - and he was ambitious - could not be satisfied with a position of a professor. It was a prestigious profession, but James Moriarty could be so much more.

Later Mycroft found out that, in reality, he was.

Sherlock's concern wasn't unfounded but it was too late for rash decisions. Mycroft had to act carefully and subtly because he had no idea what James's reaction to a break up would be. That mostly depended on James's reasons to continue this relationship, and there were so many possibilities that Mycroft couldn't make a logical conclusion. Was James's goal to get closer to Sherlock, as the consulting detective seemed to be the only one able to beat him in their game of minds? Or did he want to get closer to Mycroft in order to get government secrets? Or could he simply enjoy being in a relationship with a person equal to him just as much as Mycroft did? If only Mycroft could decide which one it was he'd be able to decide on an escape tactic.

A phone ring brought Mycroft back to reality. He glanced at the screen and, with a heavy heart, pressed the answer button.

"Hello, James. How is your day so far?"

#

"Mycroft is acting stupid and I don't know how to stop it." Sherlock announced loudly as he entered a small room. He did not pay any attention to the dead body of a middle aged man lying on the floor. Instead he made his way to John.

Lestrade sent them an irritated glance. The doctor gave him an apologetic smile in return.

"Sherlock, how about we talk about it later?" He suggested.

"My brother had developed suicidal tendencies and you ask me to ignore it?" Sherlock asked, allowing a note of incredulousness to seep into his voice. "Aren't you a doctor?"

"I hardly believe it's as bad as you describe it," John commented.

"It is."

"Sherlock?" The detective's grim voice made John reconsider his attitude. Worry creeping in, he asked. "What happened?"

But Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore; he was moving towards Lestrade and asking about the murder victim. For the rest of the day John, unsettled by his friend's words, couldn't stop thinking about what Mycroft Holmes had managed to get himself into.

#

"So did you come to your senses yet?" Was the first thing Sherlock said to him at their next meeting.

Mycroft ignored the question in favor of greeting John and looking around the crime scene. An explosion. The second one that month; both were not big enough to be considered terrorist attacks, two passers-by injured and one dead, which made it pretty obvious that there were quite obvious targets to those explosions. Both were assassination attempts covered up as explosions, both successful.

Sherlock, angered by Mycroft's disregard of his warnings, grabbed his hand and dragged him to the side.

"You do realize that your boyfriend is responsible for this, don't you?" The younger Holmes whispered furiously in his ear.

"There is no proof," Mycroft replied coolly, eyes on the remains of the exploded building.

"None is needed."

That sounded foolish, but Mycroft understood his brother's train of thought. For people like them: Mycroft, Sherlock, James Moriarty, no big proof was needed; logic, deduction and details, things the police would never consider a proof, led them to the right conclusions.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly, only slightly raising his voice and tugging his hand from Sherlock's hold. The consulting detective was not giving up this easily though as his bony fingers closed around his forearm, grip strong and bruising.

"Why don't you just listen to me?" The energy which Sherlock put into convincing him was touching and so terrible, because it hurt Mycroft to push his brother away when he was the one making a step towards him. "Why don't you just _think_?"

"I do think, Sherlock. Constantly. Can't stop, to tell the truth." Mycroft replied softly, his other hand closed over Sherlock's on his forearm. "That might be my biggest problem."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed. He tried to understand what Mycroft meant when he said that. But the younger Holmes was never good with emotions; feelings were unfamiliar territory for him.

"Is everything fine?" A voice intruded on their silent standoff, and they turned simultaneously to look at the man who dared to interfere.

"Lestrade, shouldn't you be doing, I don't know, all that stupid walking around and missing all the important clues?" Sherlock snapped, irritated.

The DI ignored the remark, his questioning eyes settled on Mycroft instead.

"Everything is under control, Detective Inspector." Mycroft reassured and finally pried Sherlock's fingers from his arm, moving away from his brother.

Lestrade glanced from one man to the other, assessing the truthfulness of the statement. To distract him Mycroft took a step toward the man with a pleasant smile on his face and extended his hand.

"I believe we haven't met before. I'm Mycroft Holmes."

"Gregory Lestrade." The DI took his hand and glanced over Mycroft's shoulder at Sherlock. "So, another Holmes, heh?"

"I know you've been working with my younger brother for quite some time. I'm truly sorry for any damage, physical or psychological, he might have caused."

"It's fine. We are all used to his insults by now."

Mycroft chuckled and then almost laughed out loud when he heard Sherlock's growl from behind. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps retreating as the younger Holmes stomped away.

"Now, honestly, are you alright?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock left, eyes following the figure of the consulting detective. The concern was unexpected but not unwelcome.

"Yes, just a brother's quarrel." Mycroft reassured him. "Absolutely nothing to worry about."

Lestrade nodded, his gaze returned to the older Holmes, watching him with interest. "You look…tired."

The question reached a level of privacy that no talk between two people who had just met should have, but truth be told, Mycroft was exhausted. Between his busy job, Sherlock's insistence on meddling with his life and his own concerns considering James, not much time was left for rest.

"How about a nice cup of tea? Or coffee?" Lestrade ventured, looking a bit unsure but still pretty confident.

And only because he needed something to pick him up, and not at all because his new acquaintance was charming and had a nice smile, Mycroft agreed.

#

"Interesting?"

"Relatively. I'd say, entertaining." Mycroft lifted his eyes from the book in his hands to see James approaching. It should not bother him that a man he called his lover had free access to his flat. Still, it did.

He put the book aside as the other man reached the couch and settled by his side.

"Tea?" Mycroft asked, unconsciously looking for an opportunity to put some space between them. As James nodded in agreement he stood up and moved to the kitchen. This was fine, this was natural, thus nothing unusual, nothing _suspicious_.

Mycroft wasn't a person who enjoyed cooking and he rarely did it, but in making tea he was a professional. For the sole purpose of that he had a big modern kitchen arranged for him. As he reached for the teapot he heard the rustling of paper – James had picked up his book and was listing through it mindlessly.

"How was your day?" The man asked.

"Nothing remarkable." Mycroft replied shortly. It was his usual answer to such questions, just some general information, never anything specific, especially if it concerned his job.

"How about yours?"

"Boring as always." James shrugged as he delivered his own daily reply. It was their routine and it had never bothered Mycroft until the suspicions started creeping in.

Mycroft was tempted to ask more, press for some information, but this was a silent arrangement which was one of the basics of their relationship. They barely asked about their time spent apart from each other. Probably all the personal facts Mycroft knew about his lover he got from the reports and research results from his people. He was sure the same thing went for James.

They had been together almost half a year, but he still hardly could call it a relationship. It was more like two great minds finding each other in a sea of dull daily life and clinging to each other for all it's worth because no one else understood them like that. Sometimes Mycroft wondered what his lover thought of their relationship. James surely was not in love with him, but maybe he once, when all this just started, had hoped that he had found a person he could maybe spend his life with. But that was a foolish thought and it wouldn't do him any good to dwell on it.

"Lost in thought?" James's voice startled him as it sounded much closer than Mycroft anticipated. While Mycroft was standing over the brewing pot of tea and allowed his mind to wander, the other man had moved from the living room to the kitchen.

"The book must have been better than I first considered."

"Food for thought? Maybe I should read it…"

"You won't like it." Mycroft replied easily, harsh but with a teasing smile. James ran his hand down his spine gently, settling his palm on his waist as he tried to look over Mycroft's shoulder. It was a futile attempt however, seeing as how his lover was much taller. After a moment he stepped away, leaning on the kitchen counter and observing as the other man prepared them tea. It was nice actually, Mycroft thought. The touch light and careful, deceptively loving if you forgot who James Moriarty was.

"Why is that?"

"Too much chivalry." Mycroft smirked at the other man.

James laughed, high-pitched and sounding almost unnatural, but Mycroft was already used to his laugh by now.

"Yes, you are right. I don't like fantasy." James accepted his cup gratefully, taking a long sip. "You make the best tea, Mycroft."

"Oh so that's why we are still together?" Mycroft asked jokingly, but half expecting a serious answer.

"Maybe," James smirked; there was something sharp to the small movement of his lips and to the glint in his eyes. "This reminds me…I was hoping to meet your family sometime in the future?"

Mycroft laughed, a light carefree sound, and replied with a tint of teasing to his words. "I'm not sure that's what you want. The Holmes family can be quite eccentric."

"Oh, but you know how I enjoy eccentric people." James held his gaze, smile in those dark brown eyes. Dark and dangerous.

"You enjoy messing with eccentric people," Mycroft countered, moving to sit at the kitchen table, the other man taking his place across from him. "I'm not sure that my family members are ready for that."

"Do I mess with you that much?" James asked, faking hurt as he reached for his partner's hand over the table. Mycroft allowed the small contact, despite his thoughts being in disarray as he tried to figure out what James was trying to achieve with this conversation, his body was comfortable with the closeness.

"All the time." He replied. "It seems like your favourite hobby – to mess with people's minds." The statement was too close to the truth, but delivered in a mocking tone, so, Mycroft concluded, should not be over the top.

"You know me too well, dear." James answered as he brought Mycroft's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles.

Mycroft allowed a small smile to grace his lips. The sense of danger he felt every time his lover was near never dissipated, but it didn't prevent him from enjoying the other man's company. James's request to meet his family came unexpected even after he ran all the scenarios of the future of their relationship in his head (bloodshed not excluded, but considered the last measure as he wasn't sure who'd be left alive after), but he never expected this simple question, so common for normal couples. In his mind Mycroft had never considered either of them normal, and in this case two minuses didn't result in a plus.

He took the cup with his left hand and swallowed cooled tea in one gulp. After that he stood up, gently tugging his hand from James's hold.

_Reasons. What were his reasons?_

"Maybe after you propose to me." Mycroft threw over his shoulder on his way out of the kitchen, his tone making it obvious that he was joking. In his own mind it was something to 'Never-Ever Happen'. He stumbled and steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe as he heard James's 'Maybe.' Somehow that one word made his blood run cold.

#

"So did you realize how stupid you are yet?"

He was calling with the phone now.

"Dear brother of mine, right at this moment I could not decide which one of us is acting more foolish."

Phone conversations were never secure enough. At least not from a simple mobile phone.

"You, certainly. Did you come to your senses?"

"I'm afraid you won't be satisfied with my answer."

"Which means no. Fine. Whatever. Do as you please. See if I care."

Too many words for someone who didn't care. Mycroft hung up on him, least he'd actually start explaining why he couldn't break up with James Moriarty.

#

"Sherlock is even more annoying these days."

"Is he?" Mycroft asked, not really caring for an answer. He was too comfortable, sitting in his favorite café with a cup of perfectly made black tea and even a small piece of chocolate cake. Lestrade, sitting across from him, was fidgeting and looking around – clearly uncomfortable in such a high class establishment.

"Yes." The DI eyed the waiter who had brought him his own cup of tea and commented. "He snapped at John the other day."

Mycroft frowned into his cup. "That is unusual. However unexpected that might be Sherlock is very fond of his new friend."

"What is going on?" Lestrade asked. "I know he's stressed from all those cases. Something crazy is happening in this city. We all feel the effects of it; police are out of their depth with crime rates going this high in just a year. But your brother always keeps his cool. And if he ever loses control then he definitely finds a better target for his remarks. He certainly likes making fun of Anderson." The last part was added as an afterthought before the DI took a sip of his tea. His eyes closed as he savored the taste, his features relaxing and lips curling into a smile.

"I'm glad that the tea is to your liking." Mycroft commented with a smirk.

Lestrade laughed. "It is very good. And the company is very nice. But…let's not divert from the original purpose of this conversation. You. Sherlock. London going crazy."

"Sherlock _is_ stressed from the load of work. I see you are too."

The DI did look exhausted, face pale with heavy bags under his eyes, but in the dim lighting of the café he still looked fairly attractive.

"I know you came here to talk about business, but I' m not in the mood for serious conversations."

The situation turned even more serious during the last month, all the government organizations were involved in the problem, desperately searching for people involved, but whoever was behind all this was very good, no traces were left.

Whoever, Mycroft snorted inwardly. Unfortunately he knew too well who might be responsible. Should he even bother saying 'might be'? Maybe it was time to say 'who is behind all those crimes'.

"It must be terrible, having Sherlock Holmes as your brother." Lestrade said.

Mycroft didn't recognize it as a diversion tactic it was at first, but then he smiled gratefully.

#

_Have you followed my advice yet? SH_

_No. MH_

_Idiot. SH_

#_  
_

"This book really was pretty boring." James announced as he fell on the sofa by Mycroft's side; the book he threw on the coffee table was the same one Mycroft was reading not long ago.

"I told you that you won't like it. But you still decided to read it…Interesting." Mycroft muttered and reached for the book to put it aside with care.

"Well, you were reading it. I want to understand you better."

Mycroft turned bodily on the sofa to look at him, tilting his head to the side. His eyes took in the figure of his lover slowly, evaluating, considering. Dark brown eyes, looking particularly black with the only light in the room coming from the torchiere by the sofa. James was a handsome man, but there were times when his face transformed, his features twisted and changed so that he looked dangerous, manic even. That tilt to his lips, not a smirk but a cold half-smile, that glint in his eyes, the one that suggested no mercy.

No answer coming to his mind, Mycroft leaned forward and kissed him.

#

"He's a dangerous man."

Mycroft was impressed with his brother's insistence. He was also very touched by such concern.

"Sherlock, please, stop this."

"Mycroft." Sherlock was looming over him, standing a step higher on the staircase leading up to his new case, looking rather disconcerted. "James Moriarty is very dangerous." He repeated, stressing every word, but keeping his voice even. "Stay away from him."

"It's a little too late for that, isn't it?" He side-stepped his brother, not paying any mind to the telltale narrowing of his eyes and a thoughtful gaze following him.

He might have said too much but Mycroft was too tired to fight off his brother for any longer.

"Bad day?" A familiar voice asked and a smile appeared on Mycroft's face before he even realized it.

"Gregory," he spun on his heels to face the man and they stepped aside to let the ascending group of policemen pass. "It's a pleasure to see you."

"The feeling is mutual." The DI replied with a smile of his own. "Now that we've established that I'm happy to see you, I have to ask, why are you here?"

"Just…" Mycroft glanced up with a sigh, where one floor up a dead body of his, now obviously ex, colleague was lying. "Business."

"Too much of such business lately, huh?"

"Yes."

It was so true, but no one wanted to talk about that. Mycroft expected something big to happen soon. Sherlock bombarded him with texts daily now, all inconspicuous, only comprehensible for the Holmes brothers. Since Mycroft always replied with a laconic 'No' Sherlock started sending him what an onlooker would think was absolute gibberish. In truth those were encoded addresses. Mycroft's people checked those places and they didn't find any clues but it was obvious that those flats, all in the middle of London, had been used as temporary shelters for criminal organizations. Sherlock's message, as always, was very clear. The younger Holmes didn't bother with pretending that he didn't care anymore.

Mycroft felt exasperated and on the verge of screaming in his face that he could not just leave the mastermind of the criminal world without heavy consequences for his well-being. Maybe Sherlock overestimated his brother's powers. Maybe he underestimated James Moriarty. Or most likely he rightly analyzed the capabilities of the both sides, but wanted Mycroft to get out of this relationship no matter what. Unfortunately no one, not even the Holmes brothers, was immune to the irrational fear of James Moriarty, however momentary it could be. On the other side, Mycroft was pretty damn sure that Moriarty feared Sherlock as well.

"Heavy thoughts again?"

Mycroft startled at the voice of Lestrade.

"Sorry, I was distracted." He replied, eyes focusing back on the man in front of him.

"You need to relax. How about I take you to that fancy café after we are done here?" And, not waiting for Mycroft's protest that was sure to follow, he dashed up the stairs, pausing only to add. "I'll meet you downstairs in an hour. Enough time for you to finish with your business."

Mycroft sighed and followed him upstairs.

Sharply an hour later Lestrade met him downstairs as promised, another half an hour and they were sitting in that café, and then after another hour Mycroft found himself in Lestrade's flat, comfortably seated on his coach in front of the television, which was turned on and playing a random channel on mute. It was strangely comfortable, despite Mycroft's usual unease at being in other person's home.

"Feeling any better?" The DI asked.

They were sitting very close, thighs pressed to each other even though the spacious couch provided enough space for them both. But the warm presence by his side, one that didn't make Mycroft tense, worry or over analyze every gesture, was a nice change. And Gregory Lestrade was so charming. So easy-going and honest in his words and gestures. It was so easy to be attracted to him.

"Yes, thank you." He relaxed into the couch completely, resting his head on the back of it. Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes, taking long breaths.

When he felt the couch shift he opened his eyes to see Lestrade's face much closer.

"Gregory?"

He didn't get an answer to his unfinished question as in the next moment Lestrade kissed him, his lips softly ghosting over Mycroft's, not pressing, just questioning. Just a light caress, not asking for anything in return.

Forgetting himself and all the problems for one amazing moment, Mycroft kissed him back. It was gentle and sweet and just so right…But then reality crashed down on him and his hands, which were gently cradling Lestrade's face, pushed the other man away.

"No." He whispered, breathless and slightly dizzy. "I'm sorry, I'm…"

"Taken. Yeah, I know…" Gregory replied. He had moved away to the other end of the couch. Distressed, he ran his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

Mycroft didn't have anything to say to that.

"Sherlock is using every opportunity to tell anyone willing to listen what a terrible person your boyfriend is." Lestrade said, ashamed to admit that he had listened. "It is true?"

Mycroft snorted. "In some sense, yes it is."

"Does he treat you bad?" When Mycroft didn't answer, Lestrade frowned. "Mycroft? If he does, I don't want to intrude into your personal life, but I swear I will not stand aside and let him…"

"No, no. It's not like that." Mycroft hastened to reassure him, before Lestrade came to any conclusions. After all, James had never been a bad partner. All the wrongness in their relationship came from the constant suspicions turned truth about his involvement with organized crime. So it would be unfair to let Lestrade think that they had any kind of abusive relationship. "Nothing like that."

"Then what is wrong?"

"James is…not a very nice person. I don't have any proof but I still know for sure that he is merciless and cruel to those who dare go against him. But the rest of the time he seems…nice."

Lestrade stared at him for a long time, expression something between shock and irritation. An ordinary person like him found it difficult to comprehend why one would be in a relationship with such a man, but in his analysis he disregarded the matter of great minds being gravitated to each other. This need to be understood; though now Mycroft knew that for his own good it'd have been better if he repaired his relationship with Sherlock than started anew with James.

"I should probably go." He said suddenly, getting up. He felt awkward and out of place, wanted nothing more than to leave. To escape a situation where this amazing man was questioning him about his dysfunctional relationship.

Lestrade followed him to the door, watching Mycroft quietly.

"It was a pleasant evening." Mycroft said, slightly disconcerted by the silence and overcome with a need to fill it. Lestrade nodded. They stopped at the door, Mycroft over the threshold already but still unwilling to leave, some expectation holding him in place. He waited for the other man to say something, do something, maybe just lean over and kiss him and drag him back inside and insist on Mycroft leaving James. When it did not happen he said with a small sad smile. "Maybe I'll see you around. Good bye."

"Mycroft. If you ever," Lestrade bit his lip in indecision. "If you ever decide to leave your boyfriend, you can…Just tell me and, if you'll be willing, I'll take you out. And I'll treat you the way you deserve it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

With that promise and the memory of their kiss, Mycroft left.

#

The sound coming from the living room indicated that one of them had got a new message on the phone so the conversation stopped abruptly. Mycroft had to agree that talking to James was something he really enjoyed. That's what their relationship was built on – long difficult conversations over a glass of expensive wine or a cup of perfectly brewed tea. This is why he took a risk, answering James's advances even though he still barely knew the man at that time. The strangest thing though, Mycroft couldn't bring himself to regret that rushed decision.

Even in an enemy a person like Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes could appreciate a great mind.

"Was that mine or yours?" James asked casually, glancing through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room.

"I have no idea," Mycroft replied truthfully.

They both rose simultaneously, neither trusting the other with his phone – too many secrets held by such an unreliable device. Mycroft reached his first; the screen was black, no sign of an income message or a call.

"Oh, that was mine." James chirped from behind him. He was always so cheerful it was almost impossible to tell if he was actually happy or just playing. His dark eyes scanned the screen of his phone, the now-familiar manic glint appearing in them.

Mycroft stood, half turned to him, frozen in one spot, mind reeling with ideas about what could be the reason for that cold cruel smile. His phone, still in his right hand, buzzed. He ran his thumb over the screen to unlock it and saw that he had gotten a text. From Sherlock. Suppressing the trembling of his fingers, Mycroft opened the text.

_New explosion in 2 hours. Figuring out where. Careful. SH._

Mycroft lifted his eyes from the screen to glance at James. For a second he allowed himself to be terrified of this man. Then, as quickly as the fear came, it passed. Mycroft gathered his composure to meet James's dark stare with confidence.

"Something important?" He asked casually, nodding at the phone.

"Just work. Nothing to worry about." James reassured him. "You?"

"Minor problems. Nothing we can't deal with." Mycroft replied pleasantly. If only he could believe in his own words. "More tea?"

"Yes, please."

They moved back to the kitchen, Mycroft minding his every move. Sherlock wouldn't send him that text if he wasn't completely sure. So, another explosion. Location – unknown, but Sherlock was working on that. Mycroft believed in his brother's abilities, but…In a game of minds between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty who would win? But Mycroft, in his current position, could cheat. The question was what the price would be? James's phone was lying on the kitchen table, just inches from Mycroft's hand. Just a quick movement, grab it and look through his texts. James had never held a gun on his persona, of that Mycroft was sure; though he couldn't assert the same about the flat. Even though it was Mycroft's flat, James had spent enough time here to be able to hide any kind of weapons. Then again, Mycroft doubted it. So after all, everything depended on physical strength and reaction time of their people. Would Mycroft be able to find the information he needed and send it along to his brother? James was short and slender, but that didn't mean he was weak. Far from that.

Mycroft calculated the odds and came to a conclusion.

"You don't mind if I send a text, do you?" He asked, just in case James would consider any sudden movement a threat.

"Of course not." James took the cup to his lips, movement relaxed, but his whole posture tense.

Mycroft typed the text unhurriedly and sent it. The best thing he could do at that moment was to alert his PA to provide Sherlock with any assistance.

#

An hour passed. One boring hour, which seemed to drag eternally slow but was also disturbingly uneventful. An hour that James spent lounging on his couch and pretending to read a book. Mycroft praised himself on noticing the pretense, that fake interest in a book his lover would otherwise disregard after a couple of pages, seeing how it was a detective novel, pretty badly written in regards to the plot and the main intrigue, but Mycroft had it anyway because he knew the author. James would not be concentrating this intently on such a book, would not be taking the time to read each page thirty seconds more than average. On the other hand, James must have been aware of Mycroft pretending to be working, he was sure he could not fool that man.

So, the game went, long and utterly boring, as Mycroft tried to figure out a way to have a look at Moriarty's phone. He could not think of one thus far. James played it cool, not bothering to put his phone away, the device on the coffee table, so close and still unreachable.

Just as Mycroft was about to say something, anything to break the tense silence, his own phone beeped. James stilled, lifted his eyes from the page and watched the other man. Mycroft hesitated, catching his gaze for a moment and giving him a smile, before reading the incoming text.

_Found the bomb. There are more. Working on it. SH_

Well, that did not sound promising. So Sherlock managed to detect the location of the bomb – good work – but it also appeared that the bomb was not the only one. Mycroft pursed his lips, allowing the distress he felt to show on his face.

"Bad news?" James immediately picked up on that. He leaned forward on his seat, studying his lover's expression, the concern - faked or true, it was difficult to tell - made his voice sound lower than usual.

"Nothing we can't deal with." Mycroft reassured him. It helped that he actually believed his own words. Sherlock can find another bomb and then another if there was one; Sherlock can outsmart James Moriarty, but a little help wouldn't hurt. Now if only Mycroft was able to provide it.

Just a moment later James's phone rang. The man tensed and very slowly leaned to put the book in his hands down and replace it with the phone. The melody played out (_Whetheryou're a brother_) as he unhurriedly twisted the phone between long pale fingers (_O__r whetheryou're a mother_), eyes lifting up to glance at Mycroft (_Y__ou'restayin' alive, stayin' alive_). Cold calculating gaze roamed over the other man's features, reading his expression as Mycroft studied his features in return. (_Feelthecitybreakin_) Mycroft's breathing slowed and he couldn't tear his eyes from James's, waiting. (_A__ndeverybodyshakin'_) Because if James Moriarty was having a phone call while his big scheme was still playing out, it meant that things went bad. Bad for him. Mycroft held back the self-satisfied smirk. (_A__ndwerestayin' alive, stayin' alive_)

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

_(Stayin' alive, stayin' a-)_

"Yes?" James said into the receiver, voice leveled and pleasant. He listened to what the person on the other end had to say and then, with a polite smile and a nod, he mouthed to Mycroft 'If you'll excuse me', got up and left to the other room.

Mycroft relaxed back into his chair, realizing that he had gone stiff the moment James's phone started ringing. So Sherlock was moving on with his investigation? Good, that was good. Mycroft didn't bother eavesdropping on his lover's conversation with a person who, he was fairly sure, was his second in command. He took his own phone and sent a text to John, reluctant to bother Sherlock.

_I take it everything is going well? MH_

_One more bomb left. JW_

_Get out of there. SH_

Oh yes, and he did not want Sherlock to know that he was near James at the moment. The text came from John's number, which meant that, whatever they were doing, at least they were together. It always reduced Mycroft's worry just a little bit.

And now if he could only get James's phone…His fingers twitched, feeling the cool smooth surface of his own Blackberry in his hand and he looked at it as if noticing it for the first time. Would a gambit work? Frankly, if he could get to the information in his lover's phone it would not matter that James would get access to his. By that time it would be obvious that one of them would not be walking out of that flat unharmed. Unharmed being a nicer word for 'alive'. And to think that once there was a time when Mycroft actually liked this flat. Now it was more like a mental battlefield, or a chessboard since Mycroft liked that analogy a little better.

It was quite convenient for James, before this flat became a trap for him as well, to spend his time there. Because Mycroft Holmes's flat was the only place that had no surveillance inside. No cameras, no microphones…nothing. He liked his privacy. Well, up until the moment it was used against him.

With that wayward thought he stood up, carefully holding the phone in his left palm. James would like that, he thought with a smirk.

"James," Mycroft called out, pausing in the door frame and looking at his lover. James was standing in the dark hallway, his profile highlighted by the cold light of his phone screen. He was frowning down at it but as soon as he heard Mycroft approach his features smoothed out to a neutral expression. Swiftly, not tearing his eyes from the man approaching him, James locked the screen and hid the phone in the pocket of his jacket.

Mycroft did not give him time to process what was happening, just stepped to James, grabbed the lapel of his jacket with his right hand, bringing their bodies flush together, and kissed him. Kissed hard, bringing up all his worry and pent up frustration and turning in to something that could be interpreted as passion. Carefully he reached into James's pocket and switched the phones. Oh, James was going to enjoy this, he was sure. A gambit and a cheat. Not a brilliant move, but surely something James would appreciate.

James was kissing him back just as expressively, hands gripping at Mycroft's hips, bunching up the soft fabric of his shirt. Mycroft drew back, taking a breath, and locked their lips again. He doubted they'd ever kissed like that, with such feeling behind every touch of lips. When they drew apart Mycroft felt a little dizzy, and he was pleased to see the distraction had worked – James's pupils were dilated and his breathing quickened.

Without any explanation he sidestepped the man and continued on his way down the corridor to his room, closing the door softly behind. He leaned on the closed door and took a deep breath to calm his nerves and quickly reached for the phone. Guessing the password was easy – James didn't mind his secrets being discovered, if the person could put their hand on his personal phone it meant they were worth 'playing' with. Mycroft was sure that it would take his lover more time to unlock his phone. Mycroft preferred not to risk it for the sake of the game.

His fingers moved over the touchscreen quickly and efficiently, scrolling through the incoming messages and then moving on to the outgoing. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes scanned one of the texts – cold-blooded order, but he continued his search, stopping only when he found what he was looking for. Three messages containing just addresses. He put his usual _MH_ at the end of each and sent them away. He sincerely hoped that DI Lestrade would know what to do with that.

_Gregory Lestrade_. Mycroft threw his head back; it thumped softly as it hit the wooden door – it did not hurt. What hurt was the thought that he did not stand a chance in a physical fight with James Moriarty, a man he once called lover. With no physical training Mycroft couldn't put up much of a fight with him. A cruel merciless man, who would not hesitate to get rid of those who stood in his way. Now, it was Mycroft. Well, he had approximately thirty seconds to send one more text.

#

When the door opened, Mycroft was ready for the confrontation. It was very quiet as James regarded him from the doorway; the room was half in the dark, only the poor light from the outside lighting the small space, and his silhouette was highlighted by the electrical light from the corridor so it was difficult to make out the expression on his face. Mycroft was standing at the other end of the room, leaning on the back of the armchair that was turned around to face the window.

"I think this is yours." James said. A phone was dangling from his fingers and he swayed it from side to side, mocking. Always mocking.

"Oh, really? What a surprise." His tone did not fool anyone.

"A surprise indeed." James replied, stepping inside finally and closing the door. Mycroft felt constricted.

They watched each other for a long time, neither saying anything. Mycroft did not want to start this talk. James Moriarty was all too happy to prolong his fun.

Mycroft was the first to avert his gaze, breaking the eye contact for just a moment, before meeting James's cold calculating eyes again and speaking up, his tone unnaturally calm. "You wanted to kill my brother." An order to kill Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was the one text in Moriarty's phone that had truly shaken the always collected Mycroft Holmes.

Laughter, breathless and absolutely crazy, was the only answer he got.

"Did you really expect to get away with this?"

"Yes. You know I did." James Moriarty replied from his position by the door. "And I will." His black eyes glinted in the half darkness.

Mycroft didn't feel any effect of that gaze; he was too tired of that game, too angry with this man, uncaring about what would happen to him further. It was all too much for one case; too many emotions in his work, Mycroft was not used to that.

"I don't think so."

"Mycroft, please." James scoffed. "You are a clever man. That's what I like the most about you. So why do you have to suddenly be unreasonable?"

Mycroft didn't answer; he just watched this man, this brilliant man who wasted his intelligence on murder, theft and spreading worldwide chaos. It was a shame, really.

"Leave now and I will not involve you in any of my affairs, as a tribute to our time spent together." James offered. He was leaning on the door, mirroring Mycroft's position, looking pretty comfortable there. A smile stretched his lips. His sickly face looked more alive than Mycroft ever remembered it in the half a year he spent with James. There was no energy in Mycroft left to be terrified of that.

"I think you know me well enough to predict my answer."

"Well then, how about a last kiss?" James asked, mockingly. "I do admit, I'd prefer a witty conversation, but we don't have enough time so a kiss will suffice."

Of course James had also noticed that their relationship was most sincere when they talked, about music, literature, rumors... The romantic part was more like a routine they felt obliged to follow as any other couple. Maybe a friendship would have been better for them, but what was the point in leaving out what was quite an enjoyable part if they still could have it.

"I already gave you a last kiss, or didn't you notice?"

"That?" James waved his hand. "That was you distracting me while you were pick pocketing my phone. Nice job by the way." There was no malice in his voice, mostly amusement.

"I'm sorry to break it out to you like this," Mycroft said after a moment of silence. His tone, far from apologetic, snide with a dash of cruelty. "But I think we should stop seeing each other."

"So that you'll be able to take that DI up on his offer?"

Mycroft's hand twitched, but his face still remained impassive. It wasn't surprising that James had people following him, spying on Mycroft and probably his PA. That didn't mean he was aware of all Mycroft's government affairs, because spying of that proportion would not go unnoticed, but most likely knew about his private matters. Which was unsettling, but not life-threatening.

"We'll see." Mycroft replied elusively. In truth he wasn't sure what the outcome of this night would be. Making plans seemed stupid. "I don't think there is a need to stall any longer."

"Oh, what do you have in mind?" James asked with a big grin.

Mycroft didn't give himself time to think as he reached behind him, grabbing a book that was lying on the back of the sofa and threw it at the other man's head. A distraction. The only one he managed to come up with, closed up in the dark bedroom, waiting for James to make his move.

It wasn't fast enough as James dodged and, using one hand on the wall to push himself forward, lunged across the room, smashing his body into Mycroft's. Mycroft, unbalanced, took a step back and attempted to sidestep, but only managed to step away from the chair so the moment the other man's body collided with his they both fell to the ground. Mycroft's head colliding painfully with the wooden floor was the least of his problems when James's hands closed around his throat. Mycroft's hand flew up to grip at his, clawing at James's palms, but the man's grip was surprisingly strong for his small subtle body.

"Well, look at us. Stooping so low. Fighting with bare hands." James laughed darkly in his ear while his hands pressed tighter on Mycroft's windpipe. "You should have brought your security with you."

Mycroft would have told him that he preferred to have this confrontation one on one, without involving others because then the chances of them getting killed were the lowest. Sherlock and John had had enough of that for one day. Now it was his time to make sure they wouldn't have to go through this again.

It might have been presumptuous of him to believe that he'd be able to take down James Moriarty on his own, but he still hoped that he would be able to walk away from this, to leave this flat if not unharmed, then at least still breathing. As he struggled for breath in his ex-lover's grip Mycroft reevaluated his chances.

"It will be a shame, really. To kill you." James whispered over the loud sounds of Mycroft's labored breathing as he choked and struggled against the other's hold. The heaviness of James's body pressed on his chest as the other man straddled him, not allowing any movement.

Mycroft's hand scrambled over the floor, searching for something, anything he could use to defend himself; the other tried to pry James's fingers from his throat – a futile attempt. When it was impossible to breathe and his body was too weak from the lack of oxygen to fight any longer, his fingers touched a bound leather cover of another book, one that he had tossed away in his search earlier. It was a relief but only a momentary one. His vision blackened but he made the last effort, lifted it up and hit James in the head with the corner of it. James was not expecting it and the book hit him with a satisfying thud. The man wavered and cursed, his grip weakening for a moment and allowing Mycroft to take a ragged breath. James tore the book from his hand when Mycroft took another swing. His hand closed round Mycroft's throat once again, pressing on the blooming bruisers with more force.

"Farewell, Mycroft Holmes." Moriarty tried to grumble out but a groan of pain tore from his throat.

He let go of Mycroft to clutch at his shoulder. Using the opportunity Mycroft pushed with all his force and threw the other man off him, scrambling away from him. His throat hurt but his chest rose with every deep breath and he was happy to simply be able to breathe again. Mycroft's eyes flew to the doorway of the room, now opened. There were people crowding in the doorway, two or three he could not make out in the half darkness and through his own dizziness. James let out a strangled cry, more anger than pain, and lunged at Mycroft again. Another shot rang out and the limp form of James Moriarty fell to the floor next to him.

Through the haze of exhaustion, pain and aftereffect of his adrenalin high, Mycroft recognized more figures entering, the light and noise filling the room. At the periphery of his vision he noticed a familiar large gray coat before he breathed out in relief and passed out.

#

"It's incomprehensible how stupid you can be." Sherlock's impassive voice was saying; the sound no more than a buzz in Mycroft's tired mind. "For a month I was telling you to leave your criminal mastermind of a boyfriend and when you finally, finally, decide to follow my advice you do it in the most life threatening manner."

"You are the stupid one," Mycroft mumbled in reply, the cleverest retort his mind managed to come up with in that moment.

"Oh really?"

"Sherlock," John chastised. "I think you need to give your brother some time to rest."

It was a day after Mycroft's - probably stupid but who cared now - confrontation with James Moriarty but he still felt exhausted and drained. The criminal was…taken care of. All was well in the world, at least for a day or two.

After some fussing on John's part and resistance from Sherlock the two of them finally left and Mycroft was alone with the only other person in the room. Gregory Lestrade. _Gregory Lestrade_.

"I have to admit, that was the most dramatic way to break up with someone." Lestrade said after minutes of comfortable silence.

Mycroft snorted, very ungentlemanly, but he decided that he deserved a small break from always being polite and proper.

"I have to say," Lestrade started, perching on the side of Mycroft's hospital bed. "When I heard Sherlock saying that your boyfriend was a terrible person I didn't think he'd turn out to be a criminal mastermind." He smiled to lighten up the mood. "You know how to choose them."

"I surely do." Mycroft hummed contentedly. He was feeling tired, but good. Quite good actually. "But I decided to stay away from criminals from now on. I was considering quite the opposite actually."

"Hm?" A lazy smile stretched the DI's lips. "So…" He started, nervousness seeped into his voice. "Does this mean that you still want to go out? Sometime?"

"I'd love to."

#

The next day Mycroft, still lying in the hospital, but with the help of his PA, found himself a new flat. He moved in the same evening he was discharged, wanting nothing more than to escape everything that had happened in his old place. The month after that Gregory Lestrade moved in with him.

* * *

**A/N:** Since I have mostly a love/hate relationship with this story I'd be grateful to hear your opinion :)


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